I’m really in my office. Thirty-four floors above the 16th Street Mall in downtown Denver, Colorado. I feel as if I am in a Polaroid from the 70’s. The blues faded, the reds indistinct, and the blacks turned a sickly green. The “Welcome Back Kotter” t-shirt I’m wearing is an iron-on and the collar isn’t the same color as the shirt. I have on that first round of Nikes: blue with a yellow trademark. I’m twelve, but the look on my face is veteran. I’ve been effected by what I’m seeing, but I don’t care.
There is no such photograph.
In the memory that follows I don’t wear those clothes but pretend I do because they are the only ones I can recall from that era.
[a whole buncha stuff here]
From that summer there is a single recording of me. Its corners rounded in the style of the day; it’s format clearly 110. I’m on the back of a motorcycle, t-shirt, shorts, flip-flops, and a helmet–“Gotta protect your head.”
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